Nightingales
by TwoForATable
Summary: Ethan returns from America and upon being scorned by his beloved Ms. Ives, decides to move to the countryside and try to live a quiet life. For a while it was all rainbows and butterflies, but as a year passes, the demimonde once again captures him in it's seductive webs and he finds himself divided between the woman he loves and a great and malignant power still foreign to him.
1. Chapter 1

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,—

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease."

 **-John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale"**

* * *

Judging by the look on her face he knew it would be a while until he once again could be welcomed into her heart. But God how hard it was to speak, to breathe to sleep knowing that only a wall divided him from her. It wasn't wallpaper-covered structural component of this large stone house that stood imperiously between them—no, it was rather the massive stone and steel barrier she had constructed around her heart and soul, of which he was strictly forbidden to enter again.

Vanessa came and went almost like a holy ghost. No sound but the slight ruffle of her skirts that more resembled the gentle blows of wind against the leaves of a full bloomed tree. Their eyes hardly ever met anymore. She avoided entering certain rooms when she knew he was in them, she never joined them for supper anymore... or even breakfast. Only when he began taking his meals separately in his bedroom could she then be seen dining with Sir Malcolm and occasional visitors. When it so happened that he stumbled into her in the kitchen or in the library, she was quick to escape him—a sly little fox. A sly and angry little fox.

She had reason to want to run away from him—hate and ignore him. Afterall, he had abandoned her all alone here—selfishly—hadn't he? And he regretted it with all he had, not just because of her and how no longer they were friends (and that something more neither of them could label), but because of all the physical pain and heartache he had been put through. Most nights he couldn't sleep—either plagued by beautiful, nude images of her or monsters and bloodbath, the torture he had gone through while incarcerated... the numerous medical experiments that had slowly and venomously almost robbed him of his life.

He knew that if he allowed her to look into his eyes—not that she would—she would be able to see and perhaps even feel all of what he had went through. He had walked straight into the lion's den, straight to his demise. He was no David though, blessed by the God almighty—he was only Ethan Talbot or Ethan Chandler and everyone he had ever loved in his life were gone. She had turned her back on him—it pained him more than all of those methods of torture put together—it bittered his tongue and was a constant punch to the stomach—but she was gone from him as well.

So one very early morning he decided to gather his few belongings and leave before the first rays of sun would invade her bedroom. He did not want to disturb her any further.

He had looked into a small little house in the country side with ten acres of wilderness and plenty of space to raise a horse in and plant himself a garden. She had taught him in the moors. Never had he thought that the simple act of dirtying his hands in the earth and allowing life to bloom from below would be so gratifying. The small house needed many repairs—the roofs, the holes in the wooden flooring, the walls that needed to be plastered and painted, the chimney that needed cleaning.

His little house kept him busy and despite the solitude that sometimes seemed to suffocate him and all of his hopeless longing for her—he was content. The full moon no longer bothered him—he'd learned to control his animal instincts by eating appropriate foods days before the transformation, certain prayers, certain chants, certain herbs. He taught himself to not feed on people, especially the little ones and when utterly necessary, he feeded on his own animals.

As winter came and went again, covering his small bit of land and nearly completely camoflaging his little home—he could barely believe that it had been a year—a year since he was taken to America again—a year since he had for the first time left her behind.

He bid goodbye to Anthony Lloyd, his kind neighbor who sometimes traded goods with him and passed the gate into his property. His dog lay there, faithfully at the door of the house, big blackberry eyes staring back at him loyally and affectionately and as Ethan came inside, the animal followed, going straight to his favor cushion on the floor in front of the fire. Smart dog, Ethan thought and shook his head, about to pull out a cigarette of haxixe from inside his pocket and light it.

"Who knew you'd be the domestic type..." he heard the feminine voice say, approaching him from behind, probably from within the mirrors.

His dog began to bark incessantly and when he tried to approach her for an attack, with the wave of a hand she flung him forcefully against a wall. The dog fell beated and unconscious to the ground. Ethan for a moment couldn't breathe, staring at his four-legged companion.

He turned around to face her—her cool dark gaze. Hecate Poole.

"Get the fuck out of here." He said, his voice low but full of venom.

"Now, now Ethan, he's just an insignificant little dog—you are so much more, so superior, my love... If only you knew how much power you could hold within your hands, how much we could take and rule together—the most powerful—" Ethan pulled out his gun and pointed it straight at her.

"You are going to fucking leave and never return or I promise I'll fucking kill you, even if I fucking damn my soul forever!" He was furious and the very presence of the woman who had been crutial in the attempts of hurting his beloved... It rose deep within him all of the resentment he'd been carrying for so long.

Whether Vanessa Ives wanted him or not, he would always be on her side. Because that is what it is to be in love.

She left, through the mirror, a flicker of anger in her dark eyes. He wasn't stupid, she would return. Bad luck for her then.

He turned around and crouched next to his dog—Jude was what he'd called him. He grabbed a clean cloth and dipped it into alcohol to clean the pup's wounds and then went out to the garden to fetch the appropriate herbs. Vanessa had taught him well, he had her to thank. Jude would be all right, Ethan knew he'd be.

…

Spring arrived at his home with the blooming of the flowers and the trees. He was grateful for the sunshine they'd been getting the past few days, for it allowed him to properly paint the windows and door. He'd chosen a bright red. It was a color that always reminded him of her. The life and death of blood, the ruby hues of her clothes, the crimson of her cheeks when she laughed, was embarassed or felt cold. The passion that she had within her, that had elicited a passion within him as well. Red because it was the color of love and God, did he love her... even if she no longer loved him.

"Mr. Chandler!" He nearly fell with the high-pitched shouting of his neighbor's wife. "Your clothes are washed and pressed, sir!" She said with a grin, a few teeth missing in her mouth. Crinkles in the corner of her bright hazel eyes.

"Thank you Mrs. Lloyd. Do you think you can leave them inside?" She nodded and did so. By the time she came out of his house again, he pulled some money out of his pockets and handed it to her.

"A little extra for Sarah and Jimmy's birthday... Get them a treat." She smiled thankfully and nearly bowed to him.

"Oh thank you, thank you Mr. Chandler! And Jimmy will be here soon to help you mend the fences!" She hurried off and he chuckled to himself.

…

He finished his works for the day and lay on his sofa, exhausted and full from his supper. Jude lay at his feet, fully cured and lazy as always. No matter how tired he was, he couldn't come to shut his eyes and sleep—not when he couldn't stop thinking of her and his heart wouldn't stop beating so fast.

…

The following morning he heard a knock on his door and there stood Jimmy with several envelopes for Ethan and carrying a plate of cake.

"These arrived for you at the post—I passed there earlier with papa when we were delivering the milks. Lots of letters for you, Mr. Chandler. Oh, and thank you for the extra money. Mum bought us some sweets and baked a cake, she asked me to bring you a slice." Ethan welcomed the boy inside and thanked him.

"Thank you Jimmy. I hope you had a pleasant birthday." The boy nodded and sat shyly across from the American.

"Can you tell me again what it's like in the wild west where you come from, with the cowboys and the indians and the sheriffs?" Ethan chuckled and nodded.

"How about tonight after dinner—I have to read through these first." The boy smiled brightly and nodded excusing himself.

…

Ethan could barely believe what he'd read. She was on her way here from London. Something must be horribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Ethan Chandler paced the floors of his home restlessly. The letter had been sent two days ago, which meant that anytime now the woman he most loved in the world could be standing outside his door. From the tone of the letter Sir Malcolm Murray had penned—she had no interest whatsoever of being here, however, nor Grandage Place or the little cottage in the Moors were safe for her to take refuge in. He couldn't help but worry why.

Ethan looked around not knowing exactly where to start. The place was the opposite of tidy, he'd been working all morning on some wood—sawing, nailing, varnishing... There was dust everywhere and he also didn't recall clearing out or cleaning his spare bedroom in a long time. Panic began to rise from deep within him. Sir Malcolm hadn't been the least bit helpful in providing him with dates and times—or any detail whatsoever. Ethan cursed the audacious old man who must be laughing at Ethan right now—at his complete and utter distress.

The American rushed upstairs and began to carry out the piled up old furniture out of the room—the wooden green dresser with paint pealing off and drawers missing, the few broken chairs Ethan was yet to repair; the spare wood planks and random tools he'd even forgot he owned... Everything went downstairs to the little shed at the left of his home. He called out for Mrs. Lloyd and she was quick to dust the rooms and clean the floors, while Sarah, her young daughter, made the bed as nice as she could with the brand new white cotton sheets Ethan had bought on a whim during his last shopping visit to London.

"Mr. Chandler we have a bit of an issue..." Mrs. Lloyd trailed off. "There is no curtain in your lady guest's bedroom. That simply cannot be! The morning sun will shine right on her face and what of when she shall need privacy to undress? Oh dear..." Ethan tried not to laugh as he glanced at her, even more exasperated than he, so Ethan gathered all of his self-control and held the perfectionist woman by the shoulders.

"Mrs. Lloyd, how fast can you sew a pair of curtains?"

"Quite fast sir, just cut the fabric and fix the hems. Thirty minutes shall suffice."

"All right, you do that, I'll go put up a rod." She smiled brightly and he shook his head at her insufferable homemaker ways—although on many an occasion she had saved his arse... Such as now.

"Ah, Mr. Chandler—is she your girlfriend?" She loudly asked from the door.

"She is an old friend who needs a shelter." Mrs. Lloyd said nothing, as she searched the little bedroom for any imperfections.

"Do you want her to be your girlfriend?" She asked after a while, her hazel eyes locking with his own. "Because in that case, might as well bring in some flowers." Ethan pretended to have been too concentrated to hear her and worked away. He hope to God she hadn't noticed the bright crimson color that had spread on his cheeks...

Ethan grabbed the curtain rod from his own bedroom, for a lack of another and fixed it onto the next bedroom's wall. He went downstairs where Sarah was just walking inside, arms full of lavender and a various array of wild flowers to bring color to the house.

"Lavender for the scorpions, Mr. Chandler, mum asked me to bring them. And these flowers also, from our yard." He smiled and accepted them.

"Although this lady has no problem whatsoever with scorpions, I think she'll appreciate the scent. Thank you Sarah." The girl nodded with a shy smile and ran off barefoot, back to her home.

God, if it weren't for Mrs. Lloyd he would be doomed. Ethan's eyes locked onto those of Jude, who seemed to have a mocking glimmer in his canine eyes. Two hours later and the house was looking impeccable.

"What are you looking at you four-legged fool?" He asked with a smile, petting his pet's ever soft fur. Ethan regretted how intensely his heart pounded in his chest and how simply and ridiculously giddy he was. He'd never made so much fuss over a woman—although who was he trying to fool? Vanessa was no common beauty—she was the greatest beauty... She was the only woman he had ever so powerfully and unrelentingly loved.

…

Afternoon came and at precisely four o'clock Mr. Chandler heard three knocks on his door. The house was spotless and Jude lay obediently at the cushioned window seat at the back, his head erect and in "attention mode".

Ethan calculated his steps towards the door—a part of him wanted to torture her, although to be quite honest, he was torturing more of himself—the agonizing desire to finally be reacquainted with her beautiful face, to hear her deep and husky voice, to feel the warmth she carried with her... He didn't know what to expect from this surprise visit—could she have had a change in heart? Ethan honestly wished so, though realistically, he knew it to be impossible. Could she be in danger and in need of his help? Were the nightcomers after her once again—was Lucifer still trying to bargain his way into controlling her? Could it be that she simply had wanted to see him—her old friend?

So he opened the door and wound up face to face with her. She wore a simple blue skirt and a white blouse with lace on the sleeves and collar. Her hair was up, with loose curls falling about, but the most striking thing were her eyes—sharp and fixated on his, a deep frown gracing her flawless features. Her cheeks were a bright pink from the sunshine and heat, which clashed with the gray and dreariness of London.

"Mr. Chandler..." She said after a while, her voice was low and lacking somewhat of the effortless intimacy they had fallen into what seemed like ages ago. Ethan stepped aside so that his precious Ms. Ives could enter—he didn't quite know what to say and frankly, probably neither did she.

He saw as she looked around, her eyes scrutinizing and most likely memorizing each little corner and detail of the room before her. The sofa in front of the fire, the shelves full of books and trinkets. His long and wooden eating table, all but clear if not for the bowl of apples and pears... The kitchen cabinets were tidy and the wood was entirely varnished. The sink was brand new and he could tell she was surprised there even was electricity here. Well, he'd been busy the past six months.

"You have a dog?" She couldn't help but smile at the adorable creature. Jude looked straight at her, wagging his tale and showing his shimmering white and brown fur off. "What's his name?" As if to personally introduce himself, the springer-spaniel pranced over to Vanessa and affectionately nuzzled his head on her hand, unabashedly begging to be petted. She complied, her long, fingers caressing his fur and scratching behind his long ears.

"Jude." Her eyes locked with Ethan's knowingly. "Here, let me show you to your room." Vanessa followed him wordlessly upstairs. He carried her single piece of luggage, Jude, the little traitor, not leaving her side. "The door to the left is my room, down the hall is the bath... and this one here is yours." He turned the doorknob and revealed it. The room was spotless, the large bed was impeccably made with a side table holding a proud ceramic jug filled with flowers. The brand new white curtains fluttered with the breeze. Looking out the window you could see Ethan's garden and more ahead the tall trees that guarded the entrance of the wilderness. It was simple, but also neat and picturesque, as Mrs. Lloyd had eloquently put it, earlier in the day. Ethan was quite proud of his endeavors.

"Quite an improvement from the little house on the moors, don't you think?" He asked, Ms. Ives' expression remained unreadable. Her eyes though, betrayed her. She had very much appreciated his effort.

"Are you attempting at impressing me, Mr. Chandler?" He chuckled dryly and shook his head.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Ives." Her eyes followed his every move with a piercing and almost provocative gaze—Ethan could tell she wouldn't be the most cooperative of guests... and even less so communicative. As she opened her traveling bag and pulled out a stack of hard-covered books, he was certain there wouldn't be that much time or desire for conversation on her part. He couldn't say he hadn't expected it.

"The dog stays with me." She said with that look of nonchalance of hers. It was hard to believe she was being serious, but as Ethan turned around to leave her alone, Jude lay submissively at her feet. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at the affront.

God, first his heart, now his dog.

…

Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd sat lovingly holding hands on the wooden bench of their yard, enjoying the evening stars, the cool spring breeze and the fact that the children were peacefully asleep in their beds.

Ethan watched them with a sort of wonder, from his bedroom window. He pulled out the golden pocket-watch from his vest and looked at the time—half-past nine. He and Vanessa hadn't even had to venture themselves in the kitchen—Mrs. Lloyd had brought in a steaming and perfect meal of potatoes, carrots and chicken casserole... Enough for a three-day feast. Ethan knew very well that his neighbor was simply curious to see the new visitor—assess on how pretty she was, what sort of dresses she wore and ridiculous things like hairstyles and poise.

Well, needless to say Vanessa Ives with her cool elegance and steel-blue gaze were a feast for his neighbor's eyes. Vanessa had been polite and engaged with her in conversation—asking her what her secret recipe was for the delicious chicken or simply trading some facts about gardening and herbs. Mrs. Lloyd had been showed to the door with cheeks pink and a large smile on her face, whispering to him "She's a keeper, my boy."

It had almost been as mortifying and embarrassing as quite possibly introducing Vanessa to his deceased mother would be. And Ethan could see the mocking humor in her eyes the entire time—she knew exactly how awkward he felt and she feasted on his unease.

"So, have I passed on mother dearest's test?" She had asked after a while and he was clearing the table and about to do the dishes. He could tell she had a wide smile on her face and she was much more comfortable than earlier when she arrived—it probably had something to do with his mighty powerful and delicious stash of cannabis.

"Yes, you have." He finished doing the cleaning in silence, he could tell her eyes hadn't left his back a single moment, the cigarette hanging between her lips.

She exhaled some smoke and closed her eyes, welcoming the drug induced pleasure to fill her senses. Ethan was quite sure that no woman could possibly looks so enticing whilst doing so.

"There's a new threat looming in London—Mr. Gray, our mutual acquaintance one of them." This caught Ethan's attention. He pulled back the chair and sat across from her. She offered him a smoke—for old time's sake. He secretly enjoyed the fact that this was the closest he could get to feeling the taste of her rosy and soft lips.

"And in what way? Who's the other one?"

"Brace yourself now, Mr. Chandler, you wont enjoy this one bit..." His brows furrowed and he folded his arms above the table, leaning forward—his eyes now piercing into hers—silently begging for more information. "Your former girlfriend, Ms. Croft is his partner in crime..."

"She's fucking dead, Vanessa! I was there and saw her lifeless laying on our bed." Vanessa looked down for a brief moment. He couldn't see her eyes.

"Our good friend, Dr. Frankenstein... He'd been doing some practical research with corpses in his free time—he was responsible for reviving with the help of electricity the lives of three people—one of them was killed, the other disappeared from the face of the Earth and the third was your beloved Ms. Croft."

Ethan had a hard time grasping this. His eyes were filled with confusion and if he hadn't already lived and seen so much in the company of the woman across from him—he'd think she'd gone mad.

"So she's alive..." He was about to leap from his chair when for the first time in so long he felt her firm and cold touch on his forearm, urging him to stay put.

"Alive as someone else entirely—under the name and blonde guise of Ms. Lily Frankenstein—supposed cousin of our kind doctor. You see, once resuscitated—they become something else entirely of what they were in their original lives. First, they become immortal and then physically strong—very strong—and with an inclination for violence in such a way that is dangerous for anyone who they target..."

"She's alive and partnered with Dorian Gray—what for?"

"They plan on building themselves an army of immortal children. Needless to say they are after the doctor—apparently she cannot conceive."

"And you in the middle of this?"

"He's my friend... And I may just find a way to reverse their immortality—but I need time and a safe place to stay, so that I can pour myself into that hateful book and try and free ourselves of this mess. Ethan," her voice softened and it didn't escape him the fact that she finally used his given name. "All they care for is causing terror and to dominate first London and then wherever they can through their sanguinary ways."

"She'll ultimately die again... If you succeed, I mean." Vanessa's eyes softened at his obvious pain—he had loved Brona Croft and Vanessa could see why it must be difficult to grasp this entire story. How utterly impossible it must seem for him that a woman who had been his lover, could have changed into such an unmerciful and murderous creature.

"Yes—and Mr. Gray as well."

"Is this what you want—that you've made your mission to do?" Vanessa nodded.

"Then tell me, Ms. Ives—what do you need me to do?" He leaned forward until he was only a few inches from her face—his dark eyes glued to her blue ones. He was unfaltering, her ally.

Her eyes betrayed her and fell onto his lips. After what seemed like ages and the greatest effort she ever had to make, Vanessa forced her eyes upon his once more. They were dark with desire.

* * *

 **A big thank you to MusketeerAdventure for her constant support and wonderful reviews! This chapter was for you... and my dear friend Scorpionmother.**


	3. Chapter 3

Victor lay beaten to the cold, stone grounds of that beautiful man's underground room. They wanted children, they wanted children and Victor couldn't stand the pain—he simply could not give children to them. He shivered from the cold and his body shook in heavy spasms as he lay on the ground, voiceless from all of his shouting and screaming, his begging for just a small, minuscule dose. He needed his morphine he needed something, just to take away this throbbing pain, his cowardly fears, her cynical and cruel words as she scorned and humiliated him away.

Had it been a day or twelve—perhaps a month or an entire season? The imprisoned doctor simply could not fathom. He whispered random verses of poetry, a jumble of them—of words. To no one in particular—for himself, for the walls… He hoped she had found it, his only friend, the only one capable of forgiveness. He desperately hoped she'd found it, the letter he had sent to her, the letter in which he confessed to her all of his sins, the truths of the monster he was and the monsters he created. Who they were—what they were—what they above all desired. Victor Frankenstein hoped it had arrived in her hands and she had read it completely and forgiven him. Victor hoped desperately that Vanessa would forgive him—because if she couldn't absolve him of his demons of these things that pained him and haunted and killed him inside… who could?

He heard the loud and maddening creaks of rusty iron doors being opened and saw as a figment of light invaded his cell. He recoiled from it, the light, as he had once seen those terrible creatures of the night do. Victor now realized that there wasn't much that distinguished him from those bloodthirsty, hideous monsters. He was a monster who recoiled from the light. Freezing water hit his dangerously thin and pale body—he screamed out in pain and terror as it hit his back forcefully, buckets of ice that seemed to send him in a shock. He cried for mercy. But all he could hear were the echoes of her evil, hateful high-pitched laughs and feel the scent of his exotic perfume.

Lily, once his most beloved, took pleasure in his suffering and degradation. Victor cursed himself for his own stupidity and naïveté—how could any woman even she whom he had created ever love him? He was a hateful creature who deserved to die, because no doubt, these very two people—so beautiful, so cruel—they would kill and destroy everything else. His Lucifer was the two of them.

…

John Clare stepped out of the large ship at the port area of London—dreading the fact that the winds had once again brought him back here, to the place of his misery, of his birth and of his deepest nightmares. He walked the city, desperately trying to hide himself amidst the darkness of his black cloak—hiding from the faces of the people, hideous human beings scattered about and filthy such as rats—fingers pointing and cursing and laughing in such vulgar ways—it always felt that it was straight at him. He had come to learn however, that these acts were the very consequences of violence and exploration, that from above robbed men and women alike of life and dignity, filling them with anger, frustrations and sorrows that they in turn, also caused upon those even more vulnerable.

John Clare returned to the only place in this gray inferno of a city where no soul could ever testify to his existence. He wondered if that woman, his dearest and only friend in London still resided. She who so gently had laid a kiss to his cold, corpse lips. He wondered if she still was lost, sad and abandoned, he wondered if she ever thought of him—if she'd ever felt the urge to find him. So much had changed within him, so much he had seen, sailing through the seas, wandering through undiscovered lands—John wished to share his wondrous views and adventures with her—see her smile just once. He had never seen her smile. She must be something of a beauty when she did.

…

Ethan Chandler sat there by his bedroom window, staring out at the crescent moon and the sky alight with an endless sea of stars. His mind tried to make sense of all that Ms. Ives had revealed to him during yesterday's dinner. There probably would be no sleeping for him tonight.

Ethan tried to think of what she could be doing at this hour—sleeping peacefully or staring up at the ceiling racking her brain for a solution? Could it be that she was wondering why on Earth she had come here or was she on her bare knees, praying fiercely to her God—for guidance, for penance, for protection? He couldn't shake off the vision of her eyes, dark, sensual… _wanting_ him. He tried to keep his mind busy with perhaps a plan for tomorrow or repairs that needed to be done. What he needed however, was her and so fucking badly…

…

As the moonlight invaded Vanessa Ives' new bedroom through the curtains, she sat up in bed with the single candle she had for reading her books had melted completely. Vanessa couldn't concentrate—not when he was right across the cramped little hall from her—not when after so long, he was close and there seemed to still not be any substitutes for her in sight.

Well, aside from Mrs. Lloyd. She laughed quietly at the trivial thought.

The dog lay balled up at the foot of her bed—Jude his name was. Jude for the medal Ms. Croft had given Ethan—the medal that until this day he wore around his neck. Her thoughts travelled back to a few hours ago—his expression across from her of pure pain and nostalgia as he thought of his past lover—as her name rolled off his tongue. She'd felt a deep burn in her chest at this—a certain amount of annoyance and apprehension. She couldn't exactly describe it. But his dog's name was Jude… it could only mean that he still thought of Ms. Croft—that had Ethan known her to not be completely dead before—that he could very well be sharing his bed with her—kissing and pleasuring her—walking with her through town, her slender arm proudly linked with his.

Vanessa absolutely despised the mere thought of it— _of them_.

What if he were to see her, be taunted and seduced by her—Brona or Lily or whomever she called herself entirely? What if she captured him in her web? What if ultimately Ethan chose _her_ instead of Vanessa? Brona who had been his first love—the love that death divided him from. They say you never completely forget or get over the first. Vanessa hoped this was not a rule—both for him and for herself and even her dear Dr. Frankenstein far away.

…

Morning arrived and Ethan found her lying on the bright green grass of his yard, staring up at the sky. She hadn't bothered to properly pin up her hair or even dress in the appropriate layers and corset. Why for anyway? Ms. Ives was her most beautiful when unrestricted and free.

He found himself standing a few meters from her, curiously watching as she seemed to count the white puffy clouds. A large tome lay abandoned next to her—she'd given up on reading for the time being.

"Ms. Ives!" He knew she'd heard him call, but still she did not respond. "Ms. Ives, would you care for some breakfast?"

"Not hungry, thanks." He raised a brow quizzically. He pictured himself all of those months ago chopping off that hateful tree in the moors—only then, it had been her to call him inside—the fact that at first they had unconsciously mirrored that moment, now became clear to him.

"You can tell me, you know, about those things that haunt you in the night."

She turned her head to get a good luck at him—the corner of her pink lips curving into a humored smile. She had a look of mischief in her eyes.

"Oh, you mean about _you_?" He stood there dumfounded for a moment, as his brain processed the words she had pronounced in a moment of impulse. Ethan had never imagine her to be so damn forward about these things—not as supposedly selfless and guarded as she was. Yet, once the words escaped her lips, Vanessa gave him no reason to think she'd regretted them. Regret was another thing not so much her forte. "Because lately you, Mr. Chandler, are all I think about at night."

"What the _fuck_ , Vanessa? I come here calling you for breakfast and you just throw at my face the fact that you _fucking_ think of me? What am I supposed to do with that?" Ethan paced back and forth rubbing his beard, his hands going through his long silky hair erratically as he also repeatedly shook his head. It was quite a sight to see coming from a man so presumably virile—a known and genuine ladies' man.

Vanessa all but rolled her eyes at his ways and brushed off the excess grass and dirt from her skirt, walking right passed him, straight inside. _Let him digest it for a while_ , she thought

…

The entire morning and afternoon Ethan had avoided her like the plague, finding things to do in his shed or next door at Mr. Lloyd's workshop—leaving her alone with the dog and the books in his house.

As the wait for him became unbearable, Vanessa filled the claw-foot bathtub upstairs with some aromatic herbs she'd picked from the garden and woods earlier and some oils she had brought with her—gifts from Sir Malcolm, bought in the crowded and exotic bazars of Morocco. She'd decided to soak in the tub for a while, relax and try to clear her mind. With all her hours of reading she needed a good distraction from her lack of progress and the overwhelming presence—or lack thereof—of that insufferable American man who had just about left her behind all day.

…

He walked inside late in the evening; she'd long heated dinner and tidied the kitchen. Vanessa sat on the foot of the stairs, her waves of hair hanging like a dark veil around her face and down her back. She wore not her usual white cotton camisoles, so familiar to him, but rather something completely and utterly breathtaking and alluring—a long, dark-blue silk sleeping gown that did little to cover her upper body, offering him a generous view of her shoulders and cleavage. She stared at him with stern glare, her lips forming a slight frown. He noticed her bare feet poking out of the hem of the skirt and her arms were crossed over her lap. Vanessa Ives was the vision of a goddess and Ethan honestly did not know what to do with himself.

She did not want him—not in the way he wanted her—yet, she provoked him. With her words, with the way she looked at him, with her indescribable scent and even with her body. He had to swallow, to contain a stumble of words he expected to escape from his mouth. Her eyes left his not once—she hardly even blinked—the infuriating woman.

"What the fuck do you want, _Vanessa_?" He growled in a low tone of voice.

"First—for _you_ to hold me…" Vanessa got up gracefully as always and took a few steps forward. She stood too darn close to him now. She took hold of his hands while those big blue eyes of hers never left his, and raised each of them to her lips. She then gently placed one of his hands around her waist. " _And then for you to guide me_." She whispered in his ear, rising on the tip of her toes. The inebriating scents of her oils invading his senses. For a split second, Ethan could barely breathe out of utter desire. Only after she began to sway did he realize she was urging him to dance.

He pulled her even closer—her body impossibly glued to his. As Ethan firmly gripped her waist, lower than was morally decent, eliciting from her a sharp intake of breath, did Ethan realize he could seduce her just as well.

The two of them swayed and twirled around the room, a similar melody ringing imaginarily in their ears. It seemed as if time froze as they danced across the room, as her skin would delectably brush with his, as his hands would wander ever so slightly around the small of her back. Only the thin layer of silk separated his fingertips from her warm, soft skin. Vanessa's breasts—he could feel the shape and softness of them, unrestrained against his chest, the peak of them firm through the fabrics of their clothing. Her breath hitched as his fingers hovered just above the curve of her bottom, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of her neck. He lowered his head to whisper in her ear—he felt it as the hairs of the nape of her neck rose in anticipation.

"I can't help but wonder, you see, how a woman such as yourself can go from completely indifferent towards me, to so sensual and open—in just a few days. _What are your intentions Ms. Ives_?"

He then suddenly released her completely from his hold and as her feet fully touched the ground, she nearly lost her balance. Her eyes were hazy. Ethan stared at her—flushed and beautiful—but something deep within him; something told him it was not yet the time. He even wondered whether there ever would be one.

" _Ethan…_ " Her eyes pleaded with him. He shook his head, knowing exactly what she would imply.

"Goodnight, _Ms. Ives._ "

…

She hissed in distaste as she watched them, circling each other, utterly in love and full of desire—which disgusted her, from the mirror. As he climbed up the wooden stairs to his bedroom—leaving the Ives bitch behind—she knew she could take advantage of this little game of theirs—this little game of seduction.

She noticed that for an instant something flickered in the blue eyes of the woman standing aroused and bewildered in the middle of the room, right in front of her. Vanessa Ives could feel in the cool and heavy air the presence of someone else—of her, Hecate Poole, and her intense black gaze, waiting anxiously for Vanessa's downfall. As silently and unnoticed as she had entered, Hecate left.

…

Vanessa looked around, a peculiar energy arousing goose bumps on her skin. She pulled out a knife in the kitchen and began a ritual she should have performed the moment she arrived. She went outside, the nocturnal wind blowing the hems of her dressing gown and her hair against it. She reached the front steps of the house and painted in her own blood right there on the stoop her very own mark of the scorpion. She cast a spell of protection around the house—the ancient languages becoming all the more familiar as they slipped out of her tongue.

She wondered what Joan Clayton would say—seeing her in this pathetic predicament. Vanessa climbed up to her bedroom where Jude waited for her, asleep on top of her bed. She didn't mind having at least his company tonight. She rolled around in her bed, his question haunting her every thought—she had not an answer for it—perhaps never would.

 _What are your intentions, Ms. Ives?_


	4. Chapter 4

It was rather pathetic how Vanessa continued writing the damn letters to Mina knowing very well that her golden-haired beauty of a friend no longer lived. Nevertheless, Vanessa Ives sat curved over the wooden table in the middle of the afternoon, right hand busy scribbling things on paper with a red ink she had become very fond of. It was how Vanessa made sense of her thoughts and feelings—it was as if through the paper she could debate with her beloved friend, about both the trivialities and tribulations of her life—of how she dealt with the melancholy absence of Sembene in her life and at home; writing had helped her realize conflicts deeply embedded in her since childhood—feelings of insecurity and her complicated relationship with her parents and Sir Malcolm.

Writing these letters to Mina was the mechanism Vanessa had found to help her maintain her sanity during the miserable months of Mr. Chandler's abrupt departure—and even the weeks of his return. To be honest, Vanessa hadn't known anymore how to look at him, act around him—how to react regarding to his reentrance in her life. She had stripped herself of all defenses, invited him to freely love her, as she already loved him. His departure had felt like a million humiliating and agonizing new brandings on her back—the epitome of defeat—and what was worse, caused by someone whom Vanessa had truly cared about and trusted.

But all of that awkwardness and quite honestly, anger, had begun to dissipate upon Ethan's departure from Grandage Place and London altogether. Vanessa had deeply missed his presence—even if they had no longer been speaking. Only Ethan's presence made her feel safe and protected—and when he left again, Vanessa cursed herself every single day. Above everything else, it had been her sodding ego that had kept her from coming after him and maybe, just maybe, Victor Frankenstein's woes and the contents of his written confession had all in a way been a pretext. She'd been longing for Ethan much too long.

Vanessa looked out the window and thought of last night, the two of them… and wrote the simple verses:

 _Nightingales singing at dark_

 _an omen of joyful times to come,_

 _flying freely and serenading_

 _our waltzing union of love._

Vanessa Ives was no such poet, despite how much she read and loved poetry—her talents most definitely lay elsewhere, but somehow their small interlude in this very room, marked her in such a way that she couldn't help the sweet words written in cursive. The feel of his hands brushing against her delicate skin, intimately sliding over her back and limbs, through the silk—it wasn't at all something Vanessa would forget, in fact, it was all she could think of. Vanessa signed her name at the bottom of the letter and didn't even wait for the ink to dry—she rose from the wooden chair and tossed the piece of paper to the hearth, watching as the orange flames burned it to ash and the message was delivered through smoke, up the stone chimney—the quickest way to heaven and to Mina.

…

Ethan arrived at his cottage that afternoon followed by lazy old Jude who had finally decided on going outside and accompanying his human for a walk and Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd's eager youngest children—Jimmy and Sarah—eager to hear of his cowboy day tales and the adventures of the Wild, Wild West. The children diligently removed their muddy boots at the front door, entering the home in their wool stockings—Sarah wore a pale blue dress that had been handed down from her two eldest sisters—now married and living in Liverpool and her light brown locks of hair were tied in two identical braids, on each side of her shoulders… Her cheeks were red from too much exposure to sunlight, which accented the vast array of freckles across her cheeks. And Jimmy wore a pair of worn out brown trousers and a simple shirt that had a very long time ago been white.

Today wasn't a Sunday or much of a special occasion—no need to dress up, especially when stories like these took hours and usually were told hiking through the wilderness towards the peaceful riverside and once there, attempting and quite possibly failing because of all the chit chat—at catching fish for dinner. Jimmy Lloyd bore a striking resemblance to his father—the same calm ocean-green eyes and the dark hair like a moonless sky… He would grow probably into a handsome and tall fellow and Ethan enjoyed his company as if the boy were his own younger brother. And Sarah—with her pale blue eyes—so delicate and shy as a bird, she reminded Ethan too much of how his mother had been—and so he loved her too as a sister—the one of blood he had never the chance to have.

The children walked inside past Ethan, excited for another of their adventures. In a small bag hanging across her shoulders, Sarah carried biscuits and treats from her mother and in his trouser pocket, Jimmy carried in a small lidded tin, bait for the fishing.

"Jimmy, I need you to go up in my room and fetch me my gun and holster—can you do that? It's hanging on a hook behind the door. Sarah, while I fetch the fishing rods, could you please make sure Ms. Ives is well, fed and alive in her room and let her know we'll be back at nightfall?" His voice dripped with sarcasm as he referred to her—last night's events still fresh in her mind… he'd never thought that Vanessa Ives would be the type to play with men's feelings—his feelings. The girl nodded quietly and hurried up the stairs, quiet and efficiently, like a mouse.

Sarah knocked on the door to Vanessa's bedroom and opened it just enough for her to enter, once she was certain she had heard a muffled 'come inside'. Ms. Ives sat on the middle of the bed with pillows stacked behind her, surrounded by books, papers and drawings of strange symbols Sarah had never seen before. The girl, wide eyed and very much embarrassed, practically bowed to Vanessa, as if in the presence of a queen.

"You must be the famous Sarah Lloyd—don't be shy—I'm Vanessa Ives." The girl slowly raised her eyes to look into the older woman's and nodded, shyly shaking Vanessa's extended hand. The dark-haired lady's hands were the softest Sarah had ever touched and her hair and clothing the most beautiful and elaborate—even if just a simple stay-at-home dark blue skirt and long-sleeved white shirt.

"M-miss, Mr. Chandler asked me to tell you that we're going on our adventure in the woods now and that we'll be back at nightfall. Hmm, yes—that's it."

"Really? An adventure—and he hasn't even the heart to invite me?" Vanessa rose from her bed and straightened out her skirt, with a playful smirk. "I'm quite an adventurous person myself. Might I accompany the three of you?"

"Oh, all right then. I don't think he'll mind. You're his girlfriend aren't you? But you must come now, Miss—or it'll soon be dark." Sarah's soft voice was just above a whisper and Vanessa smiled warmly at the child's unease. She took Sarah by the hand, noticing the bright crimson that suddenly colored her cheeks.

"What do you usually do when out for an adventure?" Sarah smiled at this question—she looked forward to the adventures happening now more often than not, once a week—the highlights of this spring. And she marveled at the stories and listening to the birds—the crunching of the dry leaves beneath her toes and the calming rush of the water, every time there was something new and every time she imagined herself inside her storybooks—not a princess or a witch—but simply worriless and free—surrounded by friends and also as courageous as one could possibly be.

Jimmy called out for Sarah from the yard—Ethan and Jude at his side waiting for his sister's arrival. Jimmy and Sarah were the two youngest of a large family and the closest in age. The boy and girl hardly ever did things separately and even if mama or papa thought that the adventures were no thing for a girl like Sarah to take part in, Jimmy would defend his sister and always insist that she too participate… Or quite honestly it wouldn't be so much fun.

As they waltzed out of the cottage, first Sarah, who was quick to slip on her boots and then to their surprise, Ms. Ives, who carried with her a wicker basket with a single small knife inside—they were all now prepared to delve into the mysterious wonders of the woods. Ethan locked eyes with Vanessa, he had a twinkle in his, he genuinely seemed to love being in the Lloyd children's company and most importantly, he didn't seem to mind that she came along. Vanessa offered him a smile as their eyes locked the moment Jimmy anxiously urged Ethan to begin telling them of his time as a cowboy or at least his time with the Apache tribe.

"Well, what can I say but that laying there in the wide open plains, wounded from a battle, the men of the tribe after a vote, decided to take me in—help me heal—I realized that they weren't my enemies as we had been brought up to believe, but people, just like you and me—and how much more caring, generous and human they were in comparison to so many cold white men…"

"Such as your captain, Mr. Davies?" Jimmy inquired.

"Yes, exactly. Mr. Davies was the leader of our small troupe Vanessa, he's a recurring character in this story—" Ms. Ives couldn't hold back a smile at this. "…he led us through just about fifteen raids, three attacks and five armed battles. Died though, can't say he didn't deserve it—against the last remaining Apaches of Arizona—he was accidentally killed by his own hand during a struggle."

Vanessa nodded in understanding and continued to listen to the story that Ethan told of his life in America—although she did believe he tended to exaggerated things just a bit too much—either to impress the children or her, who could know, but it certainly was hard to believe that a simple white-tailed deer could be over thirteen feet high. So as he spoke, along the way she would gather some useful herbs, roots and ingredients and set a few traps for rabbits. Jude would stay behind with her, bless his little animal soul.

It was certainly beautiful here though; bright green everywhere and very tall trees. Birds singing and flying everywhere, all sorts of types, like nature's very own symphony. She too enjoyed the cool shelter that the shade of the trees provided and as they went on their way, the sound of the passing river became louder and louder as they approached.

The children happily ran off with their fishing poles and Ethan slowed his pace for once, holding out his hand to help Vanessa closer to the water, without slipping and falling. Her entire body tingled with his warm and protective touch. He was ever so charming, laying out his jacket for her to sit on top of. As the children argued on who would catch the most fishes—they sat in companionable silence, side by side on top of a larger rock.

"So, you've been reliving your acting past haven't you? Oh brave knight of the wild west, conqueror of the Sioux." Her voice was full of mockery and amusement and Ethan couldn't help but laugh—she loved how his shoulders shook as he did and the crinkles at the corner of his brown eyes.

"Storytelling is an art, Ms. Ives, you should know that of all people."

"And when did I ever tell you stories, Mr. Chandler?" Her blue eyes gazed scrutinizing into his. Ethan shrugged and to her surprise once more, took hold of her right hand.

"Maybe you told me none, but a part of me thinks you could be acting one out… I know Dr. Frankenstein is in trouble—but something tells me a proud lady such as yourself wouldn't come all the way here just for what, a false sense of protection? I honestly think you're too good not to have noticed that Hecate Poole has been here—at least once or twice. Most of the time I can feel her scent…"

"She was hiding in the mirror the night we danced. I put up protection spells around the cottage—I hope you don't mind." Ethan shook his head and stared straight ahead, his eyes on the children by the water.

"So she saw us—she saw what happened." Vanessa nodded and stared down at her lap, counting the creases on her skirt.

"How long has she been visiting you?" Vanessa couldn't hide her distaste from her voice.

"She's shone herself to me only once—most of the time I just feel as if I were being watched. I would say about three weeks—must have taken her some time to track me, don't you think?"

"Quite possibly… With a sample of your blood though, a lock of your hair or a fragment of your nail—she could work a spell to locate you… I know it is what I did. With some more experienced witches, just a personal item will do."

"That book—the one with the glyphs that you used to kill that man—have you used it again?"

"No—no I haven't. But I may have to what with Mr. Gray and Ms. Croft or Lily." He watched intently as her fingers reached for a flat stone that she took in her hands and played with. After a long moment of silence, the two of them just appreciating the nice weather and the children's efforts in fishing, she gently gripped his arm and said: "I missed you, Mr. Chandler—more than I would have liked. Do not think that my feelings for you are not genuine."

"Why did you miss me?" Ethan's voice was low, barely perceptible. He couldn't dare face her.

"Because with you I don't have to wear a mask all the time… Because you, Ethan Chandler or Talbot or whatever your name is—you make my heart skip a beat, every single time I think or feel or see you. Have you any idea how utterly disconcerting that is?" If not for Vanessa's bitter tone in confessing this—she too preferring to settle her eyes on the piece of stone in hand, rather than on him—Ethan Chandler would have most certainly kissed her.

"I have an idea." He stated, stealing the stone from her hands—an excuse to simply touch her—feel her ever soft skin against his. In the distance, the sun began to set in the horizon and soon the sky was shades of pink, orange and violet—and in a matter of minutes the moon and stars would be majestically decorating the night skies. And then she remembered—that horrible night in Evelyn Poole's manor, the terrorizing creature he had become, but of whom she had had no fear at all. All the time she had known it was him—the same eyes, the same brown gaze that weakened her knees. The thought that it had been this predicament of his that had driven him away from her during all those months… Vanessa needed to know.

"Ethan, next week is a full moon—how will things be then?"

"Hopefully just as they are… I've managed to learn how to control those instincts—I visited a certain shaman while in America who helped me make reason of this horrible cross I carry—this damn curse—he taught me how to deal with it." He sighed heavily. "I do get especially moody those days…"

"Don't we all?" He chuckled at her attempt at humor.

"What about those _things_ inside of you?" Vanessa shrugged.

"I apologize for my behavior yesterday… I don't even have a way to explain the reasons why I did that…" Ethan noticed Vanessa's major change of subject but chose to not insist on the obviously painful topic—perhaps some other time she would feel safer and more inclined to share with him.

"Did what? Have me hold you like this…" he surprised her by pulling her closer and wrapping an arm around her waist, her hand then moving to softly rest on his shoulder—Vanessa's other hand lay in his. Ethan gently lay a trail of kisses from her ear down to the tip of her shoulder—the spots where she was the most ticklish and he purposefully scraped her sensitive skin with his beard. She couldn't hold in the laughs and squeals any longer, her eyes tightly shutting at the wonderful sensation.

"Mr. Chandler, I caught my first fish, I caught my first fish!" The two adults jumped at the unexpected interruption, in their intimacy they'd forgotten all about the children. Sarah wore a beaming smile of pride and joy as the rather large fish debated at the tip of her hook.

"Well done, Sarah!" Ethan congratulated and got up to help the girl throw the animal inside the fish basket, to be taken home. "That was a truly excellent catch. Should we head home already to cook it?" The young girl nodded eagerly and went on to tease her brother for not being so successful.

"You're so natural with them…"

"What—Sarah and Jimmy?" Vanessa nodded, still a bit dizzy from his kisses and touches.

"Nah, they're good kids, raised right. It's good to have a bit of company sometimes—people less gloomy and less problematic." Vanessa chuckled and shook her head, swatting him on the arm.

"Caution, Mr. Mighty Cowboy—Miss Gloomy and Problematic may just up and leave."

"She wouldn't dare." He looked at her in a way that made Vanessa feel all warm inside—like the adolescent she had never the chance to be.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm so very sorry for the almost month-long delay in posting. I was so busy with classes and turning in papers that I just had to be focused for a while... But now I'm free. ;)**

 **Enjoy this chapter and I promise that very soon there will be more. After all, I owe you all don't I?**

 **Thank you once again for your comments and great feedback, they are so wonderful to receive and are so motivating. So please keep on showing your love!**

* * *

She drew the wooden double doors of the study wide open with such a force that they slammed through the blood red walls of her new abode. It was not as large and stereotypical as the dark and intimidating manor she had been living in with her mother and their followers, just over a year ago. It was rather a smaller and simpler residence, on the second floor of what once was a wax figure museum—shut down and locked up by the police that stupidly still investigated the brutal deaths of the proprietors, whose blind and maddened daughter had been sent to live with relatives in the country… or so the locals said.

A terrible, super-strong beast lurked in London, killing apparently working-class and good people—another thing they wouldn't tire of speaking of. Who was immune to the wonders of evil and death? She liked to think she was one of those beasts—heartless, guiltless, not a care in the damn world but to please and serve her master and so live everlastingly—pleasuring herself by feeding on the soul, pain and destruction of those hopeless, impoverished souls. She loved the glow in their eyes—the unique glow that appeared when they knew themselves about to die. Nothing pleasured her more than to see that glow vanish forever, and warm, hot, ruby-red blood, cleansing her skin and soaking her cloaks. The iron taste between her lips and the sense of power she held deeply imbedded in her—heightened at those very moments. She lived for that power.

She could not say she hadn't wandered through the false-blood festival of an exposé they had downstairs. On days like these, she would sit before the nearly perfect re-enactment of the Mariner's Inn accident—Ethan, the Lupus Dei during one of his episodes had been responsible. The view of the carnage brought an indescribable pleasure to her senses—many a times she would pull up her skirts—damn these too many layers—and pleasure herself at the thought of the violent bloodbath. She imagined his monstrous, strong, beastly form—so primal, so thrilling and so very enthralling. She desired him, in his true form, ravishing, torturing, pounding inside of her—fucking her in the most carnal and merciless of ways. Her true form would also come out—no need for beautiful disguises—perfectly curled hair and cheeks stained with rouge.

She crossed the newly and richly decorated parlor and shed off he clothing. She entered a tight and dimly lit hallway and pushed the first door to the left open—and their lay her lovers in bed, naked and beautiful, corpses and blood scattered and spilled throughout the floor. She eyed her—the devilish and golden haired woman—in the eyes and her lips curved into a smile of delight… and arousal. She carefully stepped over the bodies, soaking her heals and the hem of her dress in the rich and red of their newly spilled blood. Before them—his brown eyes—eying her ever so curious and fascinated, watched intently as she slipped off her cloak, removed her dress and lay with them on the bed. His eyes feasted on her and his hands went straight for her wet and aroused little pussy. As he played with her there, the golden-haired little beast's lips, met hers.

They fucked and fucked that night—they all had an agenda. They wanted a child and she could produce and carry them one. She wanted her Lupus Dei and surely, the golden-haired one could attract and lure him to her. And the man, so beautifully vicious—she could have all her fun with him—they would be powerful and immortal allies. The three of them and their desired Lupus Dei—and their child to come.

…

In London, time passed far too quickly. The house was empty and he found he was losing himself midst the corridors and the now dusty and lifeless rooms. Not a single sound could be heard, aside from this old man's breathing and one or another floorboard he stepped on that would squeak as he slowly bid farewell to his home.

There was a time when his life hadn't been so wrapped up in darkness, that he dreamed himself a tired old man—as he was beginning to feel now—sitting on his favorite armchair, grandchildren running and playing around. Perhaps a granddaughter or two would sit on his knees—on e would be golden haired and the other's would be as dark as a moonless sky. They would adore their grandfather with his adventurous and action-filled tales, his grandsons would admire him and perhaps one would even follow his footsteps. That dream version of himself would calmly smoke his pipe in the evening, stare into the hearth and look back at the amazing and successful life he had lived. Claire, his beloved and faithful wife, with her soft, soft hands would be at his side, her fingers laced through his. Her brown curls, like a lioness' mane would be a beautiful blend of brown and silver and her blue eyes like the ocean would stare into his, both in love and at peace, at last—they would be together at last.

However, that all was frivolous and honestly, quite impossible now. Claire had passed away now for years. Mina, his precious and golden little girl—was dead by a beast in life and dead by her own father everlastingly. Peter was also gone and Vanessa… He hardly saw her as the type of woman who would settle down—children, a husband. It was far too mundane for her. He had known her to be different from all others the day she was born.

It had been the middle of a nasty rainstorm, but a quick and easy birth nevertheless. She'd been born with blue eyes already wide open and aware, so full of life, so full of wisdom… and pain as well. He had been there, he had almost forgotten. Mr. Ives had been away on business and the weather had prevented him from arriving on time. Gladys had been in bed rest—Mina's was such a difficult pregnancy… Vanessa had been welcomed into the world by both her parents—he and Claire and a discrete duo of midwives from the nearest town, who swore they would never speak of it.

They had chosen her name carefully, together—he and Claire—in the hours it had taken for Mr. Ives to arrive. He had chosen the most unique and beautiful name he had ever heard—he'd read it once in a poem, but now he couldn't recall which one. Late in that morning, Claire's husband had arrived, baring a gift for his firstborn child and the widest of smiles. That smile of pride and joy should have been Malcolm's own.

That day he returned to his home, Gladys expecting the news of her good friend and neighbor's health, and that of the Ives child too. And, two weeks later it had been Mina's turn to arrive, only it had been Gladys to choose her name. Mina had been born on a bright and sunny afternoon, golden haired and fair skinned, so fragile and small. It would be three days until her eyes would properly open—first green, then golden brown. In no time, he had gone away again—adventures, riches and a continent had been waiting to be explored.

This time alone in this house had him revisiting so many of his memories… He absolutely hated it, for it all made him feel terribly regretful—and regret is for the weak minded—or so he had once, in his glory days, believed. So, he put on his cape and his hat, retrieved his cane by the door and stepped out into the heavy airs of London—in search of a destination—anything that could mean a reason to still keep on living and fighting.

…

He had searched for her in their old meeting place—that smelly and cursed, putrid house of death. He had returned there every single day at the same time as usual, but not once had she appeared—his dear friend, Miss Vanessa—the only one who had ever offered him a gentle word, touch and caress; his very first kiss. He was devoted to her and so he made it his mission to find her, he longed for her to be better, no longer so hollow and heartbroken. But if she still was, he would be here, to succor and offer her his friendship and love—such as she had offered hers to him.

As he sat on his usual spot, the old iron bed, with a sorry excuse of a mattress, he caught sight of the tall, elegant man who dressed in black came inside. He watched as he, whom John had never seen before but in a way seemed so familiar, served those in need. His curiosity was too much to bear, so he stood on the long line for soup, anxious to catch a better look at his face. After what felt like an eternity, it was his turn and he was handed a bowl. The man, older than what John had initially imagined, dipped the spoon inside the large iron pot and filled his bowl to a brim.

"You're lucky, it's still hot." He said.

"You remind me of someone—a friend of mine who I have been searching high and low for. I am afraid she is of much higher birth and upbringing than I and so perhaps there is a chance you may know or have heard of her… _Sir_." John had said it all in a hurry and stutter of words—not exactly looking the man in the eyes. Usually he would refrain from making contact, with anyone, but something deep in his guts told him that this noble sir, could have his answer.

"And what may I ask was her name?"

"Miss Vanessa. She came often to help and serve the foods… We would talk forever, about poetry and life—she taught me to dance, the waltz, you see… I can't seem to find her."

"She is not in London at the moment… _Mister_?"

"Clare, sir. John Clare."

The older gentleman seemed to scrutinize him for a long moment—John could feel the people on the line behind him growing impatient. And the old man drew a breath, perhaps for a dramatic effect. John had often seen the old Grand Guignol director do it often—it made him seem more profound and knowledgeable, maybe even charming… However, he was too anxious and eager to put up with little games. What was it he wanted to say?

"Mr. Clare—Have you a job?" John paused for a moment and eyed the man opposite from him and then shook his head in denial, nervous fingers running through the longer bits of hair that he always hoped would hide his ugly scars. "Would you like to have one though?"

"W-well it depends sir, what would I have to do?"

"I am terribly understaffed at the present and my house at Grandage Place is in need of a good cleaning and keeping. Do you think yourself fitting for the task?"

"Why, yes sir, of course. When do you need me to start?"

"First thing tomorrow, Mr. Clare and do bring your belongings—I have plenty of spare lodgings at my home and something tells me—or I may be finally going mad—that you can be trusted. And if Vanessa deems you a friend, who am I to contradict her judgment?"

"Honestly, no one Sir." John's hands quickly covered his mouth as he poured out the horrible words. He lowered his eyes apologetically to which the older man only shook his hand and let out a hoarse laugh.

"Then you do know Vanessa Ives."


	6. Chapter 6

They sat across from each other in the kitchen—he had just read through Vanessa's many notations and drawings, fruit of her weeks of research and studies in the occult—mainly the book with the glyph that the deceased cut-wife had left her. The last couple of days had been rough on Vanessa—when she wasn't wrapped up in herself, her studies and the almost-daily letters she wrote, Vanessa was wandering into the woods at any given time and returning hours later filthy and covered with bruises, blood staining her white nightgowns. She would have horrible nightmares that had her waking up in the middle of the night covered in cold sweat, pale and screaming. Her body trembled even with the slightest breeze that hit her skin—she flinched when he or anyone else would attempt to touch her—those blue eyes that were so beautiful and controlled to him were exhausted and now displayed a wildness similar to that of an animal.

Ethan knew it had to do with the book—the language of the devil she was reading so much of. Vanessa no longer sought solace and strength in her prayers—in God or religion. She was on her own and erratically trying to find a path amidst so much darkness for the sake of a friend. Ethan marveled at her selflessness—how out of love and loyalty she was capable of sacrificing her own physical and mental well-being. But he more than anything worried about her—she was the strongest person he knew, but she was also one of the most prideful. Vanessa Ives wouldn't easily admit to needing help or protection, care or love. And here he was across from her, her loyal soldier, waiting for her to tell him or at the very least give him a sign as what he needed to do to fight with her in these battles ahead.

"A blood sacrifice, Vanessa, is that what you need to do?" She sighed heavily and nodded, running her fingers through her hair. She was too thin for his liking.

"I've been preparing for it the past week—those trips to the woods and the reason why I asked you to refrain from taking the Lloyd children there. I no longer bow down or go on my knees for a God, Ethan, but I am forced to gather strength and wisdom from elsewhere."

"Like pagan rituals?" She said nothing but he knew from the very look of her that in a way it was so. "Where do you gather strength from, Vanessa?"

"From nature, from spirits that still roam…" She turned her face away from him, avoiding his gaze. "You must think me silly."

"No, never. I just worry about you, your health and quite honestly, your sanity—and my own—and now I'm fucking worried about these spirits you've been convening with. How do you know they are to be trusted? If there's something I learned while with the Indians is that they are forces too powerful to be reckoning with just like that—And there is always a consequence, always a sacrifice to be made. Yes, I'm aware of how strong you are, battling the devil and that witch yourself—but please be careful—spirits are dubious little things."

"How am I not to trust the spirits of my mentor and those of my ancestors? My grandmother, my mother… This, this thing that I have, Ethan, it doesn't come out of nowhere. I have learned that above all it is passed on through blood. My mother was such as I and I never suspected it—she never said a word either. And my grandmother, she too."

Ethan reached for Vanessa's hands and held them, which came as a surprise to her—a rather pleasant one as it had been days since she'd last felt his warm and comforting touch. Their eyes locked again and she knew he was silently asking for her attention, so she silenced herself and didn't dare to remove her hands from beneath his.

"The blood in this ritual, it's not yours is it? From what I've read from these notes of yours, it requires for a person to give his or hers life… on a full moon night." He sighed. "Full moon nights are dangerous, it's when all of those dark creatures roam—it's when what is dark becomes darker, you know that. So please, tell me the life to be sacrificed is not yours."

"I'm not sure yet. All I know is that the full moon is next week and we must leave for London as soon as possible—that is, if you will join me in this endeavor. I don't want you to feel obligated to—I understand that you have found a home here, a surrogate family, that you are happy and free of your burden… for the most part."

"Vanessa, how can you be so observant about so many things, so intuitive and intelligent—how can you not understand by now that I'll do anything for you? Go anywhere you need me to go?" He let go of her hands to cup her cheeks and hold her gaze onto his. "How could this possibly be home, without you in it?"

"Who knew you to be such a romantic?" She asked, after a full minute, her lips curving into a smile.

"I'm not—it's just the truth." He noticed that look in her eyes again, a sort of sparkle swimming in deep blue. Vanessa was smiling so beautifully it was easy to forget all of their problems and worries—that she had bruises all over her body, that once again she was becoming scarily thin no matter how many pies, casseroles and sweets Mrs. Lloyd prepared for them. "God, I worry about you…"

"Then don't—don't worry Ethan, at least not tonight." She whispered, her eyes locked onto his, her feather-like fingers tracing the lines of his face. He closed his eyes in pleasure and even then, could still feel the smile emanating from her face. He felt her lips lightly and ever-so-softly touch his and then he felt the scent of her hair—blackberry flowers—she was leaning over the table and just about wrapping him in her terrible, sensual spells.

…

That night Ethan went down on his knees by his bed, just as he would do as a boy—the way his mama had taught him. He prayed for Vanessa, for no harm to come her way. He prayed for love and light to come into Brona's revived heart, for her to stop torturing Victor. He had his flaws, just as they, but Victor sure as hell did not deserve all of that misery, pain and humiliation.

He pulled off his clothes, wearing only a soft and warn pair of trousers and lay in bed, only the lit white candle illuminated his bedroom. He couldn't sleep though—God knows he'd tried. He could feel her moving around across the hall, her light steps against the floorboards, her delicious scent that already deliciously impregnated the little house. He tried to clothes his eyes—maybe, just maybe, he would grow bored and fall asleep.

Before that could happen though, Ethan heard his door creaking open, and saw her white clad form, like the image of a beautiful ghost or angel quietly coming in. She stood tall and beautiful at the opposite side of his bed, wordlessly asking for permission. He lifted the covers for her coldness to meet his warmth and Vanessa, as always, gracefully lay next to him, the paleness of her skin and nightdress contrasting with the darkness surrounding them. The yellowy light emanating from the candle lit the contours of her figure, shone like gold against her raven hair. Her blue eyes were alight and fiery. She turned to her side to face him, raising her hand to caress his cheek and run her fingers through his unkempt hair.

Ethan watched her intently, as she deeply drew in his scent—woody, masculine and so very enticing. He watched with a mixture of wonder and curiosity, as Vanessa's breathing became slightly more erratic, as her eyes closed for just a split second in pleasure. Then, she moved closer to him, their bodies nearly touching. Her breath tickled the curve of his shoulder and intuitively he wrapped a strong arm around her, resting his hand at the curve of her back—just as on that night of the dance. His fingers lightly traced lines, up and down across her spine, eliciting shivers of pleasure from her, not discriminating the ugly mark of the branding.

"A part of me hates to be returning to London…" She whispered. "It seems almost unfair, that just the two of us in the countryside, can live so peacefully and yet there, it seems problems are always lurking…"

"You know that they lurk here as well—they're everywhere we go."

"Yet, here with you, it's easy to forget…" Ethan stilled his wandering fingers at the small of her back and lowered his eyes to meet with hers. He watched as her fingers unbuttoned the front of her camisole, slowly, one-by-one, each button popping out of place. One-by-one, more and more of the fair skin of her breasts appeared, hinting at the deep rose of her pert nipples. "Won't you, Ethan, allow me to forget just this little night more?" Before he could answer she pulled him into her warm kisses, pressing herself against him—all soft and delicate, feminine flesh. Who was he to deny her at least one night of pleasure? He desired her with a force and intensity he never felt before, for anyone else. He'd promised he would not fall into her seductive spells anymore, allow for her to play with him just as she had that night. But where was his self-control, when her fingers traced the lines on his chest and wandered lower and lower towards the hem of his pants?

He brought his lips towards hers once more, his fingers tangling within her hair, caressing the sensitive skin of her neck. He slipped the strap of her nightdress off and his hands met the coolness and tenderness of her bosom. He trailed warm and wet kisses down her neck, the valley between her breasts, capturing the sensitive skin between his teeth, taunting her with his tongue. Ethan pulled her underneath him, worshiping her whole being, feeding on her touches, her moans of pleasure and the moist warmth that he knew was pulsing between her legs. Impatiently, he tore in half her camisole, completely freeing her and Vanessa, in between kisses, unbuttoned his trousers.

…

His face was buried in the crook of his neck, an arm of hers wrapped around his as he quickly moved inside of her, both of their breaths hitching in pleasure, the bed rocking in the same rhythm as they did. Her legs were tightly wrapped around his waist, pulling and holding him as close as she possibly could to him, both their skins glistening with sweat.

Most of all, Vanessa Ives reveled in the fact that for the first time in her life she felt completely free of guilt, of resentment, of demons violently hurting and scratching her within. That it was her and the man that she most desired, without a demon between them—torturing her, whispering into her ear. She allowed herself to be held and taken places she otherwise would have never experienced; she allowed for Ethan to know and teach her and make love to her as no other man ever did.

And the night passed them by like a flash, like a wink of the eye—tortuously brief. They had London to head to and she had no idea what it would be like there.

They lay there in Ethan's bed, the first rays of light of this day, lightning the room in a soft lavender color. The breeze was cool and delicious against their bare skins. She allowed for the first time, her eyes to close, her body to relax in the arms of a beloved man and sleep to take over. The last thing she felt was his lips pressing onto her forehead, tenderly and his fingers caressing the soft and delicate skin of her hip.


End file.
